Through Ottsel Eyes
by Riona
Summary: Daxter can see exactly what's going on between Jak and Torn, and he's not exactly thrilled about it. JakTorn, unrequited DaxterJak.


Okay, this was quite a challenge. It's unbelievably difficult for me to write from this point of view – firstly because I don't get along well with first-person present tense, and secondly because I have incredible trouble writing for Daxter. He's really the _exact opposite_ of me, so I'm slightly dubious about how I handled it in this.

Oh, and I wrote this in a really weird order. I started in the middle and wrote until the end, then went back to the middle and wrote _backwards _until I reached the beginning. The beginning was _incredibly_ hard to write.

Overall I'm not nearly as happy with this as I was with _Endless Rain_. I really can't write from Daxter's point of view. But it's okay, I think. I hope.

Dedicated to Demyrie and all those who reviewed _Endless Rain_. This fic wouldn't exist if it weren't for you guys.

Hope someone enjoys it.

Tell me what you think.

**Through Ottsel Eyes**

Okay, picture the scene. Jak and yours truly are back from clearing up a load of Metal Heads at the Pumping Station. Both of us have deep cuts across our faces. Jak's limping a little, some injury done to his left leg when I wasn't looking. He _clearly_ needs medical attention.

So guess what the first words out of the Tattooed Wonder's mouth'll be when we get back to the Underground base?

"I've got a mission for you two," rasps Torn, pointing to a circled point on the map in front of him. So that thing does have a use after all. I always thought that he just sat behind it and pretended to look as if he was doing something important.

"Ooh, let me guess." I sit up on Jak's shoulder, mock-eager. "Would it be the _sewers_, by any chance?"

"Very good," he growls, in a voice that I'm _sure_ would be laden with sarcasm if he were actually capable of inflection. He goes on to explain about some Metal Head invasion or something. I don't know, I'm not listening. What, you actually expect me to _listen_ to that guy? Jak can fill me in on everything we're meant t'be doing later.

...Besides, I've got my own thoughts t'deal with.

I know that Torn's done something to you, Jak. I don't know when it started, but I see the way you look at him when you think I'm not watching. I see those little things, those oh-so-subtle glances and murmurs and seemingly inadvertent touches. You think I don't know, but I can see what's going on here, plain as day.

And I don't like it.

At all.

I leap up onto the desk and examine the map carefully, pretending not to hear Torn's softly murmured, "It's dangerous out there, Jak. Take care of yourself."

Does he actually think that I'm _that_ oblivious, or has he just forgotten that I'm here?

I don't realise that I'm scowling until Jak turns around and sees me. "Dax? You okay?"

Back in Sandover he would've just tilted his head a little, questioning, and I would've understood him.

I don't... I don't feel that I understand him anymore.

"Daxter?"

Right, right, the question. "Yeah." I crack a smile. "So all we hafta do is go down into the sewers, blast a bunch of monsters and drag our bleeding, half-drowned bodies back here, right? Yeah, I'm just _fine_." There y'go, typical Dax for you. Expert in humour, use of to utterly fail in convincing your friend not to go and get himself killed.

As he nods and turns towards the door, I mutter, "Take care of yourself, Jak," in what – though I do say so myself – is a pretty damn good imitation of Tattoo Boy's freakishly raspy voice.

...I swear, it is not _possible_ for someone to turn around that sharply.

He's staring at me now, seemingly debating with himself on whether t'say something. It's easy enough for me to smile at him with a reassuringly idiotic expression, and jump up onto my accustomed place on his shoulder. See, Jak, it's fine. Your dear rodent friend is _completely_ clueless about your terrible taste in men. Honestly.

~~~

Back at the base. The mission was easier than expected – barely broke a sweat. Not that I was doing the fighting - I just kind of... y'know... sit there. Moral support and all that. Oh, and Jak didn't mutate. My favourite missions are always the ones where Jak doesn't mutate. Seriously, d'you have ANY IDEA how TERRIFYING it is to be sitting on the shoulder of a Dark Eco killing machine?

So now here I am, lying on the top of one of the cheap bunk beds in the Underground base and totally unable to get to sleep.

I've never found it easy to get to sleep. My mind works too quickly, I guess. I get bored just lying there, so I end up making mental games and playing them until they become too repetitive to bear, or sing random songs in my head. Which ultimately distracts me from relaxing and makes it even _harder_ t'get to sleep.

It's been worse since the transformation. My Ottsel half doesn't care about much – food, drink, warmth, safety – but if it's missing even one of those things, it _will not shut up._ It's utterly impossible to rest when a part of your mind is going on about food or warmththe _whole time._

And it's stupidly cold up here.

Joy.

Well, at least I can do something about that. Leaping off the bunk, I hit the floor.

Ow. Crap.

How the hell can I twist my ankle? Do Ottsels even _have_ ankles?

Never mind, I'm going off on a tangent again. Just going to jump up onto the lower bunk and lie down by its occupant. There we go.__

_Warm, _chirps the Ottsel part of my mind happily, and curls up in the radiated heat of the form on the bed, perfectly content.

_Jak, _murmurs the part of me that is still human, and falls asleep at last.

~~~

When I wake, the first thing I notice is that I'm cold. The warmth is gone. Jak is gone. Damn you, Jak.

I'm not wondering where he's got to – he's done this before, probably off on one of his random moonlit wanderings of Haven City. I tried to follow him the first time, or at least the first time I saw him leaving, and a couple of times after that. He keeps going back to Dead Town, staring at the ruined hut as if it'll give him some answers. I almost said something when I saw his expression, but I might've... y'know... startled him into shooting me or something. And that'd be bad. As if you couldn't guess.

...I never used to be scared of him.

I still see a flash of the old Jak sometimes, when there are no Metal Heads around and we can just _talk_. When he's got this slight, genuine smile on his face... he looks happy. And I've never seen it with anyone else. I'm the only person who can give Jak that happiness.

...I see it less now. I'm terrified of losing this... the last remnants of the Jak I knew back in Sandover.

Sometimes I wonder... what if I'd found him back when they first took him? Before they had a chance to carry out their twisted experimentation, I mean. He could still be _my_ Jak, not this... _monster_ he is now. So... maybe this whole thing is really my fault...

Or even more frightening... what if I'd taken just one day longer in finding him?

I heard them talking about you when I was heading to the rescue. They were going to kill you. That evening. I don't think I ever told you that. I don't think I ever really admitted it to myself.

Two years. Two long years spent searching for him, eating out of rubbish bins and dodging Guard fire, with only one objective on my mind – rescue Jak. One more day and there... there would've been no Jak to rescue.

There you go, I'm thinking too much again. Dammit, I'll never get back to sleep now. Maybe I'll go up on the roof now, look at the stars.

Not that you can really see the stars in _this _city.

Whatever. I just... need some fresh air. Or whatever's the closest equivalent to 'fresh air' in Haven.

Yeah, I'm getting up.

...I hope Jak's okay. I know he's got the guns and all, but someday he might not see the Metal Heads until it's too late. When he's looking at the hut... I'm not sure if he'd notice...

Not going to think about that now, Dax. Up on the roof with you.

~~~

I should've suspected something when I saw that the Tattooed Wonder was gone as well, really. Should've realised, shouldn't've come up here... then I wouldn't've had to see _this_.

You've got your head on his shoulder. That's the first thing I realise. And for a moment the only thing I can think about is how _wrong_ that is.

You're the strongest person I know, dammit! You shouldn't have your head on _his_ shoulder, you're not the kind of person who'd lean your head on _anyone's _shoulder! Why the hell are you being so submissive?! What the hell has he _done _to you?!

...and in the end, I'm going to have t'admit that I'm only focusing on that because I don't want to think about what I'm seeing here. Don't want to think about what this is, what it means.

Jak. Torn. Sitting on the rooftop, _his_ head on _his_ shoulder, Torn'sarm laid over Jak's shoulders possessively - _nobody owns Jak dammit - _possessively, and Jak...

Jak...

...he's _smiling_. Actually _smiling,_ a slight, genuine smile.

_My _Jak. The old Jak.

...He looks happy.

I knew what was going on already, of course. But seeing them here like this, it... it _hurts._

He looks happy.

And of course I shouldn't resent him for that. I should be glad that he's happy, right? I mean, he's my _friend_.

It's just that somehow... if he ever got into a relationship _(don't call it a relationship not a relationship) _with somebody...

...I always thought that I would be the one.


End file.
